These are poems and illustrations conceived behind the retail counter in a bookshop, during late night blurry conversations with other lost adolescents, nurtured in the befuddlement of the morning after the night before, born into the sticky floored pubs of Edinburgh and thrown up round the corner, nourished in the shower washing off loud socialising and self-discovery and picked from life as it becomes both more painful and hilarious.
What is it like, that passage from adolescence in to adulthood? How does life change and how does it stay the same? How much of the child remains, how does it feel at the time and how does it consider its recent past?
Despite first being presented to the world in boozy public forums, these poems are gently personal, lyrical and aware of the ironies attendant upon the late night philosophy of youth.
As I wake
eyelids peeling back like paint
revealing that same old spot
on that same old ceiling
I wonder if I am an alcoholic.
I often feel the need to define myself
and have put myself on the shelf marked
Buddhist, bisexual and manic depressive before now
but somehow nothing has ever quite fit me right.
Nothing has endured and rest assured
that I am always forced regretfully to the conclusion
that I am utterly insipid.
As I make my way downstairs for a cup of tea
I decide that the key is to be an alcoholic in my spare time
so as not to let it affect my academic work.
A Nice Quiet Life
We live in a nice, quiet house
that has stairs that don’t creek.
We both go to work
and have sex once a week.
We have a nice garden
that’s green as can be,
where I sunbathe naked
so that neighbours can see.
Our home, it is homely
and beautifully clean,
with white leather sofas
and a huge TV screen.
Our cleaner’s Latino,
but I’m not a snob.
Her salsa is lovely
and she does a good job.
We’ve a handful of children,
a girl and two boys,
they do well at school
so we suffer their noise
and if they get bullied
we just buy them more toys.
We discuss them at dinners
with our nice wealthy friends,
I drink too much merlot,
then the night swiftly ends.
We live on a nice quiet street
with nice conservative folk,
there was a gay couple,
but we never spoke.
So, turns out that if you forget your password you can reset it. Who knew?
Hello, I am back again, and with exciting news. Exciting for those of you who are based in London anyway.
On Wednesday morning I will be hopping on a train to London to visit my dear friend (and fellow Unbounder) Salena Godden. Salena has just created a stunning spoken word album, which has been extremely well recieved…
I'm not so good at blogging, it reminds me of screaming in to the void. But, for you my dear friends, I shall try my very best.
I am generally a stage poet and am learning to be a page poet, so for my first post I shall simply share with you a performance of mine, if that is okay. This was filmed at Glastonbury in the mud and I emerge from a portaloo at the beginning (not my idea). I hope this gives…
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